


Aren't We Monumental?

by poptod



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, M/M, True Love, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23432884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/poptod
Summary: His reality is splitting at the seams - you’re in his dreams, a comfort as he loses his grip on what makes him happy.(Gender neutral reader)
Relationships: Ahkmenrah (Night at the Museum)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Aren't We Monumental?

**Author's Note:**

> I’m all for historical accuracy so I’ve decided that from now on, in my Ahk fics that take place in Ancient Egypt, the reader is going to have dark skin. I myself have incredibly pale skin and I have no problem reading about it so @ any pale people reading these, you shouldn’t either. Also, your name is Meryt! It means beloved :) The songs in this are written by me, because I didn’t want a recognizable modern song and I’m not sure how to write ancient egyptian song lyrics.  
> Quick warning: Ahk is PRETTY depressed in here and develops some major symptoms of anxiety.

In the distance he sees the unapproachable, casting a net to the water. Every dream he’s had as of recent is plagued by you, far away and unreachable. With every step closer he grows further away, till tonight he sees the futility of his actions, and sits on cold ground, staring at your blurry form. For the first time you turn to him, watching over every breath he takes. With a wave, he finds himself beside you, staring up at you. You’re distinct, clear against a backwash of a dark, unseeable background. Aimlessly you stare forward, pulling the net from the water and back into your hands; it drips freezing water onto his hands.

“There’s a love in simplicity that cannot be achieved in any gluttony,” you say, still staring ahead at nothing. Casting the net back into the water you drop down, sitting cross legged next to him on the wooden dock.

“What?” He asks, his brow furrowed. Now that he’s met you, the first thing you say makes absolutely no sense. He tries to not let it irritate him.

“Work with your hands, good fellow,” you tell him, and for the rest of his dream you don’t say another word. Silence encompasses the both of you, only broken by your net dragging back up to shore. Again, no fish, but there is a rock inside that looks rather beautiful. There isn’t anything particularly special about it, no swirls of color, no skeletal shape inside, but it’s very smooth, and very dark - in his hands it shines in dim moonlight, the shadow of his reflection staring back at him.

“Can I keep this?” He asks, holding the rock up to the moon and admiring the odd shape of it. You don’t reply, you don’t even move, so he, perhaps incorrectly, assumes it’s alright and holds the stone tight in his grip.

His awakening late in the morning is slow, rays of sunlight prodding him gently to consciousness. As always his servants dress him, and as he stares dully ahead they push a crown atop his head. In the mirror he spots it, the gold catching his eye.

“I haven’t seen this before. What is it?” He asks his servants, taking the crown off his head to examine it. A braid of gold encircles its entirety, a cobra with fangs unsheathed sits at the front. It’s well made, he notes, though he’s not quite sure as to its purpose.

“It’s a gift from your father,” Naguib, his personal servant, tells him, head bowed politely as always. Ahkmen sniffs, setting the crown back on his head - it doesn’t look bad, he decides, and for another moment he admires himself in the mirror. Yellow isn’t his favorite color, but status is enshrouded in gold, and status is of the utmost importance to his father. Thus, the only cloth he wears has gold sewn into it, and gold is somehow assigned to him. Blue is Kahmuh’s color, which is unfortunate - he favors blue over gold, while Kahmuh envies the amount of gold Ahkmen is constantly surrounded with.

His day continues as it usually does; there’s the daily fight at breakfast as Kahmuh inevitably has another outbreak about how much he hates Ahkmen. This time, it’s about the gifted crown, and how he doesn’t get a crown. His father just rolls his eyes, shakes his head with a sigh, and ignores his eldest son, while their mother attempts feebly to calm him down. Kahmuh storms out of the room, and the rest of the morning is spent in silence. In Merenkahre’s meetings Ahkmen stands by his side, opposite of Shepseheret like a mirror image. They’re a perfect family without Kahmuh, who watches the court from the shadows of the archways leading into halls.

By afternoon Ahkmen is back in his room, his head hanging off the bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling and trying to remember what exactly happened in his dream. As important as it was to him, he always has trouble with his memory, an unfortunate genetic trait. Caught up in his thoughts he doesn’t notice Naguib enter his room, tapping his shoulder.

“Um, my prince?”

He perks up, staring upside down at his servant, who is carrying a basket in his arms, his shoulders tight with nervousness.

“Yes?”

“You told me to tell you when I was going into the city again… you didn’t tell me why, though,” Naguib says quietly, unsure of every word. With a deep breath Ahkmen gathers himself, standing up and brushing out the folds in his clothes.

“Will I draw much attention like this?” He asks him, opening his arms for observation of his outfit.

“Quite a bit of attention,” Naguib tells him honestly. Nodding, he changes quickly into something more inconspicuous - a simple skirt and necklace.

Distantly he recalls asking Naguib to tell him, and though the exact reason escapes him he assumes it was for fun. He and everyone close to him knows he doesn’t get out much, and certainly not without being noticed and paraded as a prince. He loathes the attention, always self-effacing and hesitant to think of himself as above anybody else, even though it’s what he’s been told all his life. But Naguib knows the streets well, helps him not to be noticed, taking him through lesser known paths filled with fewer people than the main markets.

“What are we looking for anyway?” He asks as Naguib grips his wrist and pulls him into an alley as a large group of nobles pass by.

“The physician’s assistant is off on some adventure, so I’ve been filling in for them. Adom needs herbs of some sort… I don’t remember the name, only what they look like,” Naguib explains, glancing around the new street the two of them find themselves on. Ahkmen hums his acknowledgement, trailing after Naguib when he leaves suddenly into the rush of the crowd.

Amongst a mass of people he sees a variety of things he’d consider odd - though, when mentioning these things to Naguib later, he doesn’t react the same way. Apparently carrying live fish in a water basket isn’t strange, and neither is snakes in pockets. There is one thing he hesitates to mention, back in the safety of his room; something he is convinced didn’t _really_ happen, but the memory is so clear that he’s at war with himself.

In the end he doesn’t tell Naguib what he saw. Instead he lets it haunt his memory, the image of a black jackal baring its’ teeth lucid like nothing else he’s seen. It jumped at him, or at least he _thought_ it jumped at him, as by the time it should’ve landed on him the mirage dissipated. Luckily, in the crowded market no one noticed one man flinching away from nothing.

By evening time his parents are berating Kahmuh for reckless behavior again. According to them, he wandered out into the desert, but according to Kahmuh, he was hunting for a specific animal. Though, considering he can’t seem to name the animal, Ahkmen doesn’t particularly believe his story. As he does during most dinners, he eats in silence, blocking out the arguing and yelling. Quietly as he possibly can he slips away, tucking his chair back underneath the table and heading off to what he hopes is a good nights’ sleep.

When he opens his eyes to his dreams his hand is heavy. Looking down, he finds the rock, and in sudden clarity he remembered what had happened - now, he’s lying down in a hut, a fire burning beside him. The cot he’s laying in is soft, softer than it should be, and out the open door he sees you’re on the dock again. Slowly he moves to his feet, leaving the rock behind on the bed as his eyes never leave you. The echo of his feet against the wood is loud, making you turn and smile when you see him approaching.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you say, fixing his messy, sleepy hair with your free hand. The other hand holds the line connecting the net back to land.

“How long?” He asks, unsure of why he’s asking it.

“I’m still waiting,” you tell him, softer and regretfully forlorn - with half lidded eyes you stare back out to the wide river. The other side, which last night he saw so easily is so far away all he sees in the distance is fog.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his conscious self still confused, but something inside him speaks without his permission. You just nod, a gentle, homesick smile growing slow on your face.

As conversation quiets you pull your net back, finding nothing in it. Sniffing, you reel the rest of it in and with a mighty throw, it’s back in the water.

“I…” he starts, thinking back to the jackal he saw in the market, wondering if you’d have anything to say on the subject. “I saw something today. Something I’m not sure I should’ve seen.”

You respond with silence, no nod or any acknowledgement that you heard him, but nonetheless he continues - you’re dangerously easy to talk to, he notes.

“I was in the marketplace with my servant, and when we reached this crowded area… I turned, and there was a jackal, a black jackal staring at me. He was growling, ready to lunge at me, but when he did.. he disappeared.”

“What comes from nothing becomes nothing itself,” you finally respond, the words useless to him. Exasperated he sighs, wondering why he thought it was a good idea to tell you in the first place. “Don’t worry on what can’t hurt you. Anything that can cause worry can bring peace… if you can fix it, there’s no need to worry, and if you can’t fix it, find solace in your helplessness.”

“Oh,” he breathes out, the exclamation coming out involuntarily. He stares at you, his brow knitted together as he tries to figure you out - unlike anything he’s seen before, and so painfully familiar, like a cosmos he’s admired for too long. “What if it happens again?”

“If it frightens you, tell someone who may help you, good fellow,” you say, and with a short glance to the water and back to you, you’re gone.

“Where did -“ he starts, but realizes before he’s through that it’s fruitless to call for you. He doesn’t know your name, or anything you might respond to, and you seem like the type of person who wouldn’t reply anyway. Disappointed, he wanders back into the hut, slipping away into nonsensical dreams that he can’t care to remember.

Your words calm his thoughts, but only temporarily - by morning he’s forgotten exactly what you said to him, only recalling you told him not to worry. With a sigh he curses himself and his horrid memory, going about his day in a thought-heavy wander that brings his health to question.

It isn’t for another three days that something odd happens to him again, though this particular version of odd is different from the jackal. In the palace, there’s an absurdly long corridor that leads to the water gardens - it’s empty, barren of torch or painting, and it’s an unsettling sight one must go through to see the beauty of the outdoors. Ahkmen has asked his father three times to put something in the hall, but there’s always been something more important, and thus nothing has ever happened to the absurdly long corridor. When he turns down it, he sees the end as usual, a small rushlight set on the single shelf at the end. But, as he walks nearer, a fog rushes in from the corner - a sick scent fills his head, and the world turns dizzy. The smog draws closer and closer, growing thicker till he can’t see. He can’t feel his heartbeat, can barely feel _anything,_ but the shaking of his fingers is a telltale sign of his anxiety returning to him. Swallowing thick and shutting his eyes he crouches, trying to find a wall to ground himself against but he can barely see the floor he stands upon.

No one finds him. No wise words are imparted upon him, and anxiously he waits for night to receive any answer. You’re the only person - can he call you that? a person? - that he’s trusted thus far; no one else knows of the visions he has. The smog, the jackal, it’s something he’s heard of before, though accounts vary on what exactly it is. He can’t remember what exactly they’re called, or what they may mean, and he doesn’t bother to search for answers before talking to you. He goes to bed early that evening, and finds himself sitting on the edge of a very familiar dock.

This time, you’ve already caught a fish - out of the side of his eye he spots you, tending a small fire, a fish impaled and roasting slowly over the heat. Stumbling to his feet he makes his way to you, his steps slowing as he nears.

“It’s happened again,” he says, desperate for any answer you could give. Anything nonsensical, even - he hasn’t heard you speak in a long while, it feels. Yet you give him nothing, carefully watching your catch cook. With a half-groan he kneels on the ground, watching the fish with you, and wondering if he copies you, you’ll finally talk to him. “Fog, this time,” he continues. “I felt like I was suffocating, and I hated it. I mean, obviously I hated it. I don’t know why I said that.”

Still nothing.

“I also had an orgy with seventeen people,” he says, a shocking lie to get you to respond, but still you say nothing.

For a good while he just watches, irritated at your silence and coming up with ways to get you to talk. When the fish is done and safely set on a plate too fancy for your home, you finally turn to him, staring him direct in the eye. Digging into your pocket you pull out the rock, and vaguely he remembers the beauty he’d admired so indefatigably only four evenings ago.

“You forgot this,” you say, almost stern, but still more caring than what fits the relationship you have with him. Extending your hand to him, you wait for him to close the gap, which he hesitantly does - his hand hangs open, palm upwards and below yours. Your grip loosens and the rock falls too heavy into his hand. He almost loses his grip, watching with a quick panic as his hand drops with the weight of the rock.

“That’s… heavy,” he says, the words instant and he regrets saying it the moment you look up. With one short glare that almost says _as if I didn’t know_ , you turn back to the cooked fish.

“I used to dream of you. Since then I have never known peace,” you tell him, doing nothing but confusing him further. Heaving a tired sigh he sits on the ground, watching the flames of your fire reach lower and lower, till they dim to glowing embers.

When he closes his eyes he expects to wake to his bedroom, but he doesn’t - the cloth of the bed is a dark red, darker than blood, the bed floating lazily down a slow-running stream. He evens his breath, takes a look at his surroundings, glancing twice at the empty space beside him. By the third time he looks you’re lying there, not sleeping, not quite alive and not yet dead, horribly pale and still.

“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, setting a hand on your shoulder. Your touch freezes his fingers, spreading up his arm till he grows as pale as you, like a white paint coating every inch of his skin. Somehow he manages to not panic, simply lying down next to your unmoving body, waiting for something to happen. Wishing for you to speak again. In the entirety of the dream you haven’t said a single thing that could help him, only words that add to a story he can’t understand. He turns his head to you, your eyes open and dripping a steady flow of tears. A shiver runs through him; the sight is unsettling in a way he wishes he couldn’t know.

By the next morn he’s up earlier than usual. Dreams bring him no solace, so he turns to books and whatever knowledge they may store. He knows he’s heard of his condition before, these images that feel so real, so real he can’t know they aren’t until they’ve disappeared. Ta’i, the bookkeeper, leads him down rows of scrolls and clay tablets till they reach the medical section, where Ta’i leaves him. He can’t trust anyone with what’s been happening to him, not when he’s got the status he has - if it slips out to the general populace that their prince is unwell, it welcomes invaders and those who would dare to usurp power from the rightful family.

Most scripts don’t mention his condition, thus leading to a search that spans much longer than he originally intended. Without the help of Ta’i telling him exactly where specific books are, he’s left to what little knowledge he has of the organization of the library. It isn’t until afternoon that he finds anything that even mentions it, and it isn’t till evening comes that he finds any actual information on it.

Some scholars say visions are prophetic, and a gift - others say it’s a curse, that Gods vowed their hate upon the victim. Others say it’s magic. All he can feel is hunger, and he remembers, dusting off older parchments that he hasn’t eaten all day. Leaving the papers open upon the desk he leaves, wandering down crowded halls to the kitchen, barren of people.

When he emerges, date bowl in hand, the halls are empty save for Naguib, carrying a massive basket of lotus flowers. Curious, he stops him, asking what the flowers are for - when Naguib answers, nothing comes out but silence, and he continues on down the hall towards the physician’s room. A little shaken from the encounter, though not deterred, Ahkmen resumes his research, and comes up with little comfort besides the fact that he’s not the only one.

During dinner his parents coddle him, asking where he was all day - apparently he missed the unveiling of some sort of garden temple, and his mother tells him he’ll have to go see how beautiful it is at some point. He registers the words, knows what they mean, but it doesn’t process in his head; he’s far too lost in the information he’s read.

He resumes his search after dinner, and as night grows long he falls asleep at the desk - Ta’i doesn’t have the heart to wake him and kick him out, so they leave him there, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape.

Back on the dock, he opens his eyes to see you wading in the deep waters of the nile. He almost stops you, anxious that you’ll drift away in the current, but you seem perfectly fine - calm, even. More welcoming than ever before you smile at him, waving in a friendly-stranger sort of way.

“Still looking for answers?” You ask, your voice raised to be heard across the distance. He laughs, though he doesn’t know why, and sits on the edge of the wooden dock, his feet dipping into the warm water.

“I’m still at a loss for answers, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies, watching you drag fish traps out of the nile.

“Perhaps you’re asking the wrong questions,” you say, huffing with the effort you give. Hair falls in front of your face despite the fact that it’s brushed back, and you tuck the stray strands behind your ear. At the simple motion he feels his heart quicken, careful to observe the way you smile, and the way you express your exhaustion. In all the time he’s known of you, you’ve only ever caught one fish, and it wasn’t exactly a very big one. Watching you set the traps up, he wonders how you get by, the fact that you’re a dream escaping his mind - all that’s left is the fact that you’re standing before him, moonlight reflecting off the sheen of sweat on your dark skin. And in that moment, he finds you’re very beautiful, and he wonders how he never noticed before.

There isn’t anything grand about your stature, the way you carry yourself, or the way you dress and look - your words are are the only unearthly thing about you, but still he finds himself staring at you.

“What do you think I should do?” He asks you when you begin wading to shore. You don’t answer till you reach the sand.

“Look at the causes. Not the symptoms,” you tell him with a soft smile, patting his shoulder with a wet hand. “Know you are loved. Wake up.”

“What?” He says, furrowing his brow. _Wake up?_

“Wake up,” you say again, and he wakes with startling clarity - his father has a hand on his shoulder and is shaking him awake.

“My son, what are you doing here? It’s so late,” his father says, quiet and worried.

“Oh, uh… fell asleep. Sorry,” Ahkmen mumbles, his eyelids still heavy with exhaustion.

“No need for apologies. Get yourself to bed,” he instructs him, patting his shoulder once more. Without another word he drags himself to his room, forgetting about the open scrolls on the desk, and falls asleep on top of the blankets of his bed.

He doesn’t dream, not of anything, and not of you.

Come morning time he hears voices outside his door, whispering their woes in hushed voices, ones he barely recognizes. Blearily he comes to his feet, padding over to the door to open it - on the other side stand his parents, who halt their speech at his appearance.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice still rough from sleep.

“Ahkmen, we’ve been… discussing something. Father found you last night amongst a lot of our medical scrolls, and we’re worried you’ve been hiding a condition or illness from us,” his mother says, pinching her lip with her fingers as she speaks. A wave of anxiousness shocks his body, his shoulders and hands tensing. His fingers shake as he tries to come up with some sort of excuse.

“I - I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he says, a half truth. “I’m trying to figure it out.”

“You could at least tell us what’s wrong, your symptoms. Adom might be able to help you,” his father says, his arms crossed as his weight switches from foot to foot.

“I’ve - can we talk about this later?” He only asks to gather a semblance of a good excuse for not telling them, and the fact that he just woke up. “Breakfast maybe?”

“Alright. We’ll see you there,” his mother murmurs, kissing his forehead, and leaving with his father when he closes the door. Heaving a sigh he groans, clutching his head and rubbing his temples as he tries to reckon with the fact that his little issue isn’t a secret anymore. Muttering excuses to himself, he doesn’t notice Naguib enter, carrying his usual day clothing.

He doesn’t say anything, only directing Ahkmen to the right positions to set the clothes round his body. Ahkmen hardly pays attention, doesn’t look at himself in the mirror - the last time he looked, he didn’t have much skin on his body, and a fear seizes his heart whenever he catches his reflection in any object. When he’s done, Naguib bows and leaves the room, and Ahkmen makes his slow way to breakfast. There’s still no excuse, at least no valid one in his arsenal of excuses that would explain his reluctance to talk about his condition. As he sits at the table, he decides the truth is the only thing left to say.

His parents, sitting next to each other, stare expectantly at him, while Kahmuh at the far end of the table is glaring at him as per usual. He hates to show weakness in front of his brother, and can feel that hatred physical halting his speech, but he tries to get words out.

“I’ve been seeing things,” he finally gets out, a weak explanation that doesn’t clarify anything.

“Like… with your eyes?” His father asks, promptly hit by his mother. No one says anything more, so he tries his best to continue.

“Little things, sometimes. Like I’ll see a light in the corner of my eye, but when I turn it’s not there. But sometimes it’s…” he eyes Kahmuh, who is watching him intensely, “bigger things. The other day I saw a spider crawl up my arm, but when i went to get it off it wasn’t there anymore.”

“When did these visions start?” His mother asks, always the first to comfort and pretend as though nothing’s wrong with him.

“A good while ago. I was in… the garden,” he lies, “and I saw a jackal.”

His mother and father share a look of concern, and don’t reply - breakfast continues as normal, just much quieter. By the end they direct him to Adom’s study, following him to make sure he really goes, which is fair enough - the thick atmosphere of the room is sickening to him, let alone the stench.

It isn’t for another several weeks that Adom really comes to a conclusion as to what’s really wrong with Ahkmen. During that time, he doesn’t see you quite as much in his dreams; you’ve wandered past that, into another apparition that wanders the palace in silence. The urge to chase after you grows stronger with each day, and with each incorrect prognosis his vision of you becomes clearer. You don’t talk to him in this real-life form, you hardly even interact with the world, but you’re there, leaning over his shoulder and listening to Adom. The night before Adom’s final diagnoses he finally has his first coherent dream in weeks.

“I’ve seen the roots, and seen the skies,” you sing when he opens his eyes to the roof of your hut, the sight a familiar comfort. Sitting up, he sees you tending the fire - you toss in a couple of twigs, continuing to sing. “But I’ll see you again, my love…”

“What.. what are you singing?” He mumbles, deep and warm in a way he doesn’t expect. The melody isn’t anything he’s familiar with, nor is it similar to anything he’s heard before. You keep humming till you turn to him, a knowing smile on your face as you stand. Sauntering over to him, he lets his legs hang off the cot, and you kneel before him, one hand on each knee.

“I haven’t forgotten you, you know,” you say, your smile growing into a giddy grin. As usual when it comes to you, he’s left with many questions, but you stay knelt before him, unlike your usual ‘speak-and-leave’ method. “I kept your rock.”

“My what? Oh, oh. Right,” he mumbles, remembering the smooth pebble from long ago. “You didn’t need to. It’s not that important.”

“You thought it was important once. Eventually, anything that was once important will become so again.”

“I thought I was important, once. I’m still not important,” he says, and the words don’t weigh heavy in his heart. He’s already fully convinced himself that it’s the truth, but you tut, reaching for his hand and tracing veins it with your fingers.

“Perhaps _now_ you think you’re unimportant…” your eyes dart across every feature his face has, every imperfection and mark, every impeccability. “But the feeling will come and go, just like every other feeling. One day you will know you’re special.”

“… special?”

“Incredibly. Have you met anyone that looks like you? A person who walks with your stride, or smiles in the way you do? I’ve never known a soul who thinks the way you do. Not one.”

“You aren’t real, though,” he says, for once remembering he’s only dreaming.

“How do you know?”

“You’re just in my head, like those damned visions I have,” he says with a biting hatred, his throat tightening along with his hand, fingers curling to dig his nails into his palm.

“Have you met every person on earth? There’s no proving I don’t exist somewhere. But… for now, breathe,” you murmur, reaching up to rest your hand against his cheek. He sniffs, and you wipe away the single tear the escapes him, smiling softly in a way he wishes you wouldn’t. The care evident in your eyes isn’t something he’s equipped to handle, a love he hardly ever gets is unbearably strong in your hold. His parents’ coddling can hardly count as love, and outside the palace he hasn’t got any friends - and to be fair, he hasn’t really got any friends _in_ the palace, either. The closest he has is Naguib, but he can’t exactly count him.

Only then does it hit him how incredibly distressing his life is. He doesn’t have a single outlet for stress except for dreams he can barely remember, and the constant arguing between his parents and his brother has to have some sort of toll on him, even minor, though at this point it’s safe to say the effect is major. The only real happiness he finds is in sleep, either in the nonexistence of his consciousness or your presence, which is comforting even though it really shouldn’t be. When he finally sees out his own eyes again, you’re still kneeling before him, gazing into his soul and knowing what he’s thinking. With a sigh, he melts into your touch for the first time, letting you hold him.

“Oh, my dear. How long you have yearned for a warmth you’ve never known,” you say, smiling sadly at him.

+

His parents stand beside him, one at each shoulder as they collectively listen to Adom’s deductions and explanations. The study isn’t quite as smoke-filled in the afternoon sun, and the smell is down to a tolerable level, not that he wants to tolerate it. Adom prattles on for a good while, discussing the different symptoms Ahkmen is experiencing, and is astoundingly correct on most accounts, before moving onto the many conclusions he came to, before the final one, which is more conceivable than previous ones. At least, conceivable for Ahkmen - prophecies of the future didn’t seem quite right, but stress-induced hallucinations sounds much more plausible.

“What could be stressing him out?” His mother asks, worried if not scared.

“A number of things. He’s a prince, for one. But Ahkmen could tell you more about it himself than I can,” Adom tells them, and all eyes fall to Ahkmen, who is starting to wish he hadn’t attended this meeting.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles, barely hearable but the message gets across. Neither of his parents are satisfied with that answer.

“Well we can’t just let it be, you said these visions are disturbing, so you want them to end, right?”

“Of course I do,” he retorts at his mother, “I don’t want to talk about what’s stressing me out, is all.”

“Ahkmen, if it’s a girl, we’re fine with that. We aren’t going to punish you for anything,” his father says, but it only works to irk him further.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” He snaps, his fists clenching tightly as he storms out of the room. They watch him leave, hesitant to follow after, for which he’s grateful, though the emotion is blurred by his anger. First he thinks to go to his room, before quickly remembering that that’d be the first place they’d look to find him, so instead he heads towards the kitchens. The people there are kind, quiet, and tend to avoid talking to him, which is exactly what he needs.

As expected, he finds the kitchens mostly empty save for a few servants, dutifully preparing for his family’s next meal. Pulling aside the head chef, he instructs her to tell no one of his whereabouts, and doesn’t wait to see if she agrees or not - instead, he goes direct for the wine cellar, where it’s dark enough he doesn’t have to think about anything too hard. Without thought for anything except that he doesn’t want to fully exist anymore, he grabs a pitcher, filling it with wine before chugging it. He’s never drunk this much at once, and a sick feeling swells in his heart that makes him nearly choke on the drink. His world is crashing in on itself and he feels no need to keep experiencing whatever life has to offer - but perhaps it’s all his fault.

Tucked away in the dark corners of the wine cell, tears burning their way down his cheeks, he wonders if maybe it’s all his fault. Maybe he should open up to his parents, and get a grasp on his life, make some real connections, but when the thought occurs to him an anxious shiver runs down his spine.

 _I’m not ready_ , he repeats to himself in his head, over and over until he drinks himself into a blackout.

+

“My dear, good fellow,” you murmur, running your fingers down his cheek. Blearily he opens his eyes, seeing a sky holding so many stars it might as well be daytime, though the earth he lies on is dark.

“What…” he rasps out, slowly coming into his senses as his consciousness slips fully into his dream.

“Panic attacks take a heavy toll on the soul, especially one as gentle as yours,” you say with a doleful smile.

“Panic attack?” He repeats, trying to sit up, but you hush him and tell him to lie back down.

“Don’t think on it, don’t worry, we’re taking you somewhere you’ll be happy,” you tell him, your voice strange and not fully yours.

“What? Where - don’t take me anywhere,” he begs, gripping tight at your shirt, his voice cracking with the force of his speech.

“Shh, don’t worry,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

With a sigh he realizes reality is seeping into his dreams again, and there’s little to do about it. The last time he tried to force himself to wake up, he had a dream about waking up, which led to an even worse dream. So he lets you stroke his hair, comfort him with your touch while knowing all the while that it’s most likely his mother.

 _They’re probably taking me somewhere where I can be someone elses’ problem_ , he thinks to himself bitterly, finding it harder and harder to just lie there. Still, he manages it, trying to enjoy ‘your’ affections to pass the time.

_I wish I wasn’t alive._

+

“Ahkmen, we’re here,” his mother says in her usual, soothing voice, though it does little for his anxiety as of late. He opens his eyes to white sails tied to a mast, the smell of salt thick in the humid air, and he safely assumes he’s near the ocean. His mother hangs over him, his head in her lap as she runs her fingers comfortingly through his hair.

“Where are we?” He asks, his voice hoarse. When she halts for a reply he slowly sits himself up, looking around at the land brightly lit by a blazing sun overhead. Squinting, he realizes he’s still in the Aur, surrounded by palm and date trees - a relieved sigh leaves him at the idea that he hasn’t _really_ left home. The nile still flows, and he can still live beside it. He glances at the other side of the nile, the sight making his breath catch in his throat, his heart beating too fast against his chest.

He _knows_ this place. The riverside hut is too familiar, the bonfire circle to the left of it something he’s known for a long while, and with wide eyes he watches his father speaking to someone he can’t see. They’re standing half inside the hut and half outside, but his father is much bigger than they are, so the little he does catch of them isn’t helpful. Fingers shaking, he tries to get a different angle, _anything_ to try and confirm his creeping suspicion. Turning back to his mother, he gestures his confusion, attempting to get an answer out of her, any answer.

“Your father thought it’d be a good idea for you to get away from whatever is stressing you out. I suppose it _is_ a little presumptuous, to assume being a prince is the thing stressing you so terribly -“ he’s astounded their guess was correct - “but I think time away will be good for you either way.”

With a nod from his father, his mother helps him to his feet and leads him off the boat, and down the wooden deck he’s known but only now felt - an impending dread fills up his head and heart as he grows closer to the entrance of the little hut, thickening his blood and slowing his thoughts. At long last his father steps to the side to make room for him and his mother, and he sees you - smiling politely at him, your hand outstretched to shake his.

Gingerly he clasps his hand in yours, the short touch electrifying his nerves, but he manages to keep himself under control as his father introduces you to him.

“This is Meryt,” he says with a smile, “and you’ll be staying with them until you think you’re well enough to come back home.”

 _I don’t think I’ll ever want to come back home_ , he thinks to himself distantly, feeling out of place in his own body. How, exactly, a real person becomes a character in his dreams, complete with the right house and job escapes him - all he can see is the gold pattern of the sun shining through the thin canopy and onto your skin. Your eyes glitter a brilliant color, staring into his soul without a care in the world. As his father continues talking, muted into the background, he wonders if you already know how important you are to him.

It’s a few hours before his parents leave, sailing up the nile in the royal barge, leaving him with you. Behind the little house, the sun is beginning to set, and you pull a net out from a box on the dock, pulling it to the edge and throwing it out into the water. Looking up at him, you pat the wood beside you, and he sits carefully down beside you.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ahkmen,” you say with a pleasant smile, your head drifting from side to side gently to music you hear in your head. “As your father said, my name is Meryt. My friends call me Merry.”

“Merry?” He asks, surprising himself with how quiet he speaks.

“Yeah, you can call me that if you’d like,” you say, and when a silence spans between you, you start humming. He sits beside you for a good long while, wondering how to bring any subject up - his dreams, the reason he’s here, the fact that he’s probably a damper on your daily routine. Before he can think of anything to say, you tie the net line to the dock, and head inside. He almost follows you, but you remerge a second later with two cups. Handing one to him, you sip from the other, sitting back down next to him, your legs dangling off the edge.

“So, um,” he stares down at the gold liquid in his cup, “what is it you do here?”

“Various things,” you answer vaguely, giggling when you see his confusion. “I fancy myself a fisher, though I’m not very good at it. It was really more my fathers’ thing. I’m a brewer, sort of.”

Glancing at you, and back down at his cup, he takes a sip - it’s beer, which he usually doesn’t have, but it’s certainly sweeter and kinder to taste than the brews he’s had in the past. When he looks back up you’re watching him, gauging his reaction, so he smiles, thanking you for the drink.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s what I sell in town, but the beer itself I buy from Umut, who’s the actual brewer. I just add some special ingredients, but other than this, I don’t get around much. Most everything I need can be supplied by what I already have.”

“Probably why I’m here,” he mutters to himself, the simplistic lifestyle a clear reason as to why his parents would bring him here of all places.

“I heard you’ve been having visions,” you say, quiet and sincere. He looks away, a blush crawling to his cheeks as he scowls. “I have a friend that used to have those. Though, I don’t think they were as bad as yours are… is it alright to talk to you about this?”

He nods, slow and shy, but a definite yes.

“She used to see these lights, like stars but close by… this mage from the East said they were fairies. Your parents didn’t tell me much, but I don’t think yours are like hers, are they?”

“Not really,” he mumbles, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them close.

“Mm. You can talk about it, if you’d like, or we can do something to get to know each other a little better,” you suggest easily, and it almost annoys him how kind and down-to-earth you are. You’re nothing like his dream, at least not thus far, but he doesn’t know what he expected anyway - you _aren’t_ a dream, you aren’t solely his, at least not anymore. He retracts the thought a second later, but for a single moment he wishes you were entirely his own, a secret safe from a world he’s started to fear.

“Do you have any advice?” He asks weakly, flinching when he hears his voice crack.

“Advice…?” You think for a moment, staring out into the nile before looking back at him. “There’s… there’s no way to tell if you’re doing the right thing, or if the path you’re on is the one for you - but there’s comfort in the inevitable, and in the unchangeable, just as there is love in the ever-changing.”

“Oh,” he gets out in a whisper, staring at you as you watch the water ripple with the breeze. The way you smile strikes an uncommon warmth in his heart, welcoming and anxious all at once - in this moment, watching your lips turn up at the sight of turtles at the shore, more than anything he wants to be close to you in a way he knows he can’t. _People have boundaries_ , he warns himself, though the ache to know the softness of your hair and the blush of your cheek against his fingertips is more enduring than anything, and for a fleeting moment he thinks maybe it’d help him. Maybe you could help him. But when he breaks from the trance, he’s far too terrified of poisoning your innocence with his brokenness to do anything of the sort. Instead he watches you, the dying light of the sun casting shadows across your skin, dipping around the creases your smile makes.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him away from his thoughts. “I’m not very good at giving advice.”

“No, no… it’s good. I think it’s good,” he mumbles, his nails digging into the wood of the dock.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

For dinner you make an assortment of fruits and vegetables, and though it’s not exactly the cuisine he’s used to it isn’t bad. Sitting at the fireside, the hut sheltering you from the wind growing stronger as night grows, the two of you eat in silence. Afterwards, you share another cup of beer, and you tell him a little bit more about your life and what you do.

“You know quite a bit about me now,” you say after sharing the basic information about yourself. “What about you?”

“Me? I’m - I’m not very interesting, I’m afraid,” he blurts out, almost choking on his drink when you ask.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“… what?”

“Your favorite color,” you repeat. His mouth hangs open, confused as his eyes dart from side to side.

“Uhh… blue,” he answers slowly.

“There you go, that’s something interesting,” you say with a brilliant smile. For the first time in months he laughs, shaking his head.

“ _That_ counts as interesting?”

“Of course it does. Everyone has interesting things about them. There’s a story in everyone… why’s blue your favorite?”

“Oh, I don’t know, um… I just like it, I guess,” he mumbles, thinking _just how I like you_ as the words come out.

“It’s a nice color,” you say with a kindly smile.

“So does my favorite color tell you anything about me?” He asks, taking another swallow from his cup.

“Just what type of things to get you. Now if I see something blue that I think you might like, you’ll like it even more.”

“That’s…” he wants to say dumb, because it’s really such a childish gesture, but what instead comes out is, “… really nice of you, actually.”

“Well, you deserve kindness.”

He begs to differ, but instead of pursuing that, he changes the subject.

“How do you know my father? I’m sure he didn’t just drop me off here without knowing you,” he asks, and in a few aspects he’d be right.

“My father knew yours when they were young. Unfortunately, my father was a very solitary man, never told much about himself… I think the only person he ever opened up to was maybe my mother.”

“That explains why your home is sort of in the middle of nowhere.”

“Do you believe in soul bonds?” You ask out of nowhere, taking him by surprise. Furrowing his brow, he shifts uncomfortably.

“Um… I - I don’t know what that is,” he tells you honestly, setting his cup down and fidgeting with his fingers, staring into the low flames of the fire.

“People who are meant to meet, connected beyond status and distance,” you try to explain, and he understands for the most part.

“I’m not sure,” he answers, thinking of how he dreamt of you, wondering for a moment as his eyes flicker to you if he’ll dream of you again tonight.

“Fair enough answer,” you say. “I just thought you might, because when you looked at me, you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“I did?” He says, his voice tight.

“A little - are you alright?” A concerned look grows quick on your face as you shift to be on your knees, scooting closer to him, looking over his face.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He says, but his voice is still cracking and far too high. _I’ve forgotten how terrible a liar I am,_ he thinks as your hand brushes against his. Swallowing thick, he tries to ignore your attention, staring into the fire.

“Ahkmen, if you’re seeing something you can tell me. I won’t think any differently of you, I’m here to help you after all,” you say with a weak chuckle, clearly too worried to fully comfort him.

“It’s - can I tell you later?” He gets out in a rush, unable to catch his breath long enough to speak a full sentence. You back away, sitting back down on the floor as you watch him, curious and concerned.

“Of course. Take your time,” you tell him, gently patting his hand curled into a tight fist. You take his cup and plate and your own, cleaning and putting them away. By the time you get back, he still can’t breathe right, his chest strained and heavy with anxious weight.

When you sit next to him, you place your fingers on the side of his face, turning him to look at you. His eyes flit across each of your features, clear as day without the muddling of his dream-state, and he nearly cries at the care in your half smile.

“Breathe with me,” you murmur, taking his hand in your own and pressing it upon your chest. Slowly he feels you, your heat, and the even movement of your breath. He tries desperately to match, watching with a frightened intensity as his fingers shake against you. Every second moves embarrassingly slow as he notices every detail of you, watching every move you make, but he’s in your bed before he knows it.

“Wait, where are you going to sleep?” He asks, already drowsy from his panic as he holds your wrist.

“I have a blanket,” you tell him, and for hm, the answer is hardly satisfactory.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he mumbles, barely able to keep awake.

“Go to sleep,” you say, kneeling before him and petting his hair. With an undignified hum, wishing you’d just take your own bed, he falls into sleep.

The following couple of days he tries to distance himself from you, and though it’s clear you don’t understand why, he thinks his reasoning is obvious. When you cast your line out to fish, you ask for him to sit next to you, but he often refuses - he doesn’t want to be a hindrance to your life. When you prepare food, he eats as little as he can - he knows you’re not exactly rich, and food can be hard to come by, even if it is a plentiful summer. Still you push him to eat more, saying the portion you give is what you can afford, often noting his noisy stomach.

“I don’t -“ he tries to get out how he feels, attempts feebly to tell you what he means, but the words clog his throat till he can’t speak anymore.

“You’re not a bother. Your basic needs physically cannot be a burden, not on me. Not on anyone. Certainly not on yourself,” you tell him, pulling his hands away from hiding his face. “Hey,” you murmur. “I know you’re hungry. Eat.”

Staring into your worried eyes he relents, sighing as you smile, pushing a plate into his lap.

By the fifth day you’re fully comfortable with him - the same can’t be said for him. He’s still a nervous wreck in your presence, complete with sweaty palms and weak knees, and a variety of reasons for this go through his head. It could be that he simply doesn’t know you very well, or it could be that you’re _still_ in his dreams, kissing and touching him where he’s rarely ever touched, or it could be that you’re more strikingly handsome than any foreign princess. Eccentric and classic, you’re a succor he’s desperately needed for so long a time.

The more comfortable you grow with him, the more you begin to act like you do in his dreams. Quiet, thoughtful, and never one for direct answers; it gets to the point where the only way he can tell the difference is that in his dreams you touch him incessantly. In real life you always ask, uncertain of his wishes and hesitant to comfort.

“Looks like there might be a storm,” you say, gathering up the net from the water to put away.

“What?” He asks, pulled out of the memories of his dreams, looking up at you. As usual, you’re to the left of him, though this time you’re standing as he sits, his feet just barely touching the warm water below the dock. Your clothes are beginning to soak with the net gathered in your arms, sticking tight to your skin.

“The wind comes from the north, which,” you point to the gathering clouds, “is where the clouds are coming from. I’ve been expecting it for a while now.”

“Really? You didn’t say anything,” he says, hurrying to his feet to help you.

“Wasn’t sure until now. Either way, I’ve been stocking up food, so if it’s bad, we’ll be okay,” you say with a charmingly positive smile. He doesn’t understand your unending optimism, and doubts he ever will, but he most definitely appreciates it.

After helping you pull the rest of the traps out of the water, the wind growing steadily harsher, he follows you inside and shuts the door. By the time he turns around you’re already working on starting a fire, sparking your flint against the wood. All around the outer walls the wind begins to howl, growing louder as rain begins to fall down. Once the fire is fully started, the rain pelts down on the roof, a far too loud white noise, but luckily quiet enough that he can still hear you talk.

“Did I tell you my mother built this home?” You say, sighing when you finally relax into your makeshift seat on the floor, a bundle of pillows and blankets set out in front of the stone hearth. “Except for the fireplace. That was my father.”

“It’s well made,” he says, unsure of what response is appropriate. Often, you’ll talk without any meaning, not expecting a word from him though appreciative when he does add his input.

“Yes…” you breathe out, glancing up at the ceiling, then back down at the fire. “Well made. Like you.”

“… Like me?”

“You were made with love in mind. We’re all creatures of hopeless regard and admiration, dedication and loyalty,” you say, poking him right where his heart sits.

“Not everyone,” he points out, remembering court stories of rape and abuse.

“The Gods have a story in mind for every one of us. In the heavens each of us are crafted from nothing… isn’t that beautiful?”

“One time you said what comes from nothing becomes nothing,” he says, growing quieter as he remembers that’s something you said in his _dreams_. But you just go with it, your mouth parted slightly as you try to think of answer, shifting in your seat.

“That’s true. But until then, we exist as love incarnate,” you murmur, smiling soft and hesitant at him in a way that far too often makes his heart stop. “Don’t forget our world came from nothing. Ptah came from nothing.”

Technically, you weren’t wrong, but it didn’t settle well in his stomach anyway - you’re pure, wonderfully positive and endlessly loving. He feels like he’s nothing, he _knows_ he’s nothing, his life can’t mean anything, and it shouldn’t mean anything to you. He must’ve had a look about him, because you scoot closer, tracing the soft skin of your fingers down from his temple to his jawline, and at the motion he lets out a shaky sigh and closes his eyes.

“Every king and kingdom, every emperor that claimed to live forever came from nothing. We are all equal. Your father has as much power as a peasant - if they switched positions, no one would know the difference.”

“That’s treasonous talk, you know. I could have you stoned,” he jokes weakly.

“You could,” you say as though it doesn’t matter. It does, it matters a great deal to him - you should feel fear at the thought of your death, but you’re at peace with death just as much as he’s at discord with living.

“Merry, you can’t… you can’t just _agree_ with me,” he gets out in a whisper, squinting as though it’ll help him understand you.

“But you’re not wrong,” you point out, and he grumbles, irritated.

“No, but aren’t you afraid of death?”

“A little. Fear is natural. I don’t wish myself to be in pain, but… death is just the next step and it’s necessary. It’s something we all go through in the end. Fortunately we have a little leeway on how we die,” you say with a curt smile, patting his knee.

“To be honest,” he says, interrupting you from almost standing, “I’m not sure if I believe in Gods anyway. Even if they did exist, I don’t think my father would be one.”

“I think of Gods more as magic. The beauty in the world,” you say, nodding your head distantly before meeting his eye again.

“Well, yes, there are little bits of magic in our world, but… nothing absolute. I’ve never seen any god, nor any trick to warrant belief… but.. I want to believe. Have you ever seen magic? Actual, true magic?”

“I saw you.”

He scoffs, almost rolling his eyes as he looks away from you. It’s such a corny answer he can’t decide if you’re joking or not, but by the way you scoot closer, it’s safe to assume you’re being completely serious.

“Hey,” you say softly, resting your hand against his cheek to push him to look at you. “Look at me. If you think about it, you’re phenomenal. Gods can number many, and the stars are innumerable but there’s only one of you. Ahkmen, galaxies are more commonplace than you! A unique being, capable of complex thought - isn’t that wonderful? Aren’t you monumental?”

Stunned into silence he can’t respond, his mouth barely parted as you stroke his cheek with your thumb. Smiling soft and sweet, so commonplace he’s almost used to the sincerity, you stand.

He watches you pull ingredients from your various cabinets, throwing them together in a mix and placing it inside the fireplace. As you pull down a loaf of bread to slice, he intervenes without word, cutting for you. In your appreciation you peck his cheek quickly - you’re not tall enough to reach his temple, but the affection still leaves him blushing bright red nonetheless.

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you tell him, still smiling brightly - he can’t find it in himself to respond, but he tries to smile without meeting your eye. Instead he concentrates on the bread, trying to pick out the smell or think of the ingredients as you handle your own task behind him.

As he finishes, pulling the honey down from the cabinet, he hears music, and he halts - he hasn’t heard music since being in the palace. You usually don’t sing, at least not in front of him, and he doesn’t play any instruments. Turning around, honey pot still in hand, he sees you standing with your eyes closed, swaying back and forth to the music you play on the lute. You don’t notice him staring as you start to sing, melodic and breathtaking; he nearly drops the pot.

“… and in the dust, you are saccharine sweet to the endless you seek… You spoke to me, whispered in my ear, ‘lets live forever!’ But we chase the lust of living for creations’ dissever…”

He swallows thick as you continue.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” he rasps out, throat dry by the time you finish.

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at it. But I’m good enough for children, and for birds,” you tell him, setting the lute down behind a chest.

“… birds?”

“That’s usually who I sing to,” you tell him, taking the pot from his hands and drizzling it over the bread, taking a pinch of your spice mixture to sprinkle over it.

“Did you write that song?” He asks quietly, frozen in place.

“Yes, actually… it’s a hobby of mine.”

“I.. I never learned any instruments,” he says, kneeling in front of the fire.

“I’m self taught, but I could help you start if you’d like,” you say, sitting beside him and handing his plate to him, a row of small slices on one side as you pour the vegetables from the fire on the other side.

“No, I, um… I like hearing you,” he mumbles, pinching his skin as his anxiety spikes up at his own sincerity.

“Thank you,” you giggle, ruffling his hair.

The rain creates a nice ambience, he decides, the muted pattering on the roof working in tandem with the crackling the fire. Like a melody he can’t decipher, completed by your presence beside him, comforting and nerve-racking all at once - sparing a glance at you, you’re still off in your own world. He wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you sing again but has no idea how to bring it up again, so he decides he’ll settle for just hearing you talk.

“How does the chimney stop the rain from coming in?”

“Hm? Oh, the chimney has a hat,” you tell him, quickly returning to your meal.

 _Damn_ , he thinks at the short conversation that could barely qualify as a conversation. The rest of dinner he tries to think of another topic, of anything to get you to talk, but before he can think of anything you’re cleaning up the dishes and he’s tending the fire to continue burning as the two of you sleep. When you finish with your task, you sit beside him again, a little closer than usual, and you breathe a little harsher than normal - absently he wonders the cause.

“Ready to sleep yet?” You ask, watching him for any reaction. He doesn’t turn to you.

“Can you play another song?” He asks weakly, still not facing you.

“Of course,” you say with a smile, patting his shoulder as you stand to fetch the lute.

_I’ve known you from a distance, longed for the sweetest shame,_

_But it’s been far too long since I’ve felt the embrace of someone dear to me,_

_so cling to me, the sweet ambition, cradled in innocence’s swath -_

_Though I may know you for a century, I’d give myself for a minute more._

_The dearest touch of what is known -_

_I beg to gently press my kiss to your chest,_

_to hold your tender heart as my own._

You’re much closer to him as you sing, knelt beside him as you strum. He almost wants to sing along, but it’s finished much faster than your last song, and he lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

“Do you have these written down somewhere?”

“Not everyone can write, Ahkmen,” you say with a soft laugh, once more putting the lute away, hidden from sight. He nods as he remembers where he is, and who he’s talking to - _perhaps I’m still too used to palace life_ , he thinks, and not for the first time that day.

With a small yawn, you undress, and as usual Ahkmen does a full turn to avoid staring at you. Once you’re dressed in night clothes, you make yourself comfortable on the cot, wrapping the thick blanket over your shoulders and pulling your knees to your chest.

“I made this bed big enough for three people,” you tell him, and when he looks it doesn’t really seem it. Then again, his bed is about the size of your entire house, so he assumes his doubt has to do with his status once again. He wonders why you bring it up, but you take his hand, pull him to his feet and sit him down next to you on the cot. With drooping eyes you lean against him, yawning again. “We can sleep together tonight.”

He freezes, nearly choking on his own spit.

“ _What_?”

“It’s gonna be cold,” you mumble, not bothering to elaborate as you lie down, your head on the pillow and the blanket fully wrapped around your own body. Still finding it hard to breathe, all he can do is watch you, your little hums of comfortable pleasure pulling him deeper into his consternation. Slowly, his eyes never leaving you, he leans down till his head is beside yours, staring at your tired face.

“You… want me to sleep… with you..?”

“Mhm,” you hum, surprising him - he’d asked the question, yes, but he thought you were already asleep. Without opening your eyes, you pull another blanket out from a nearby basket, handing it to him with very little grace.

“Why?” He asks, but at that point you’re asleep, your breathing even and slow. To calm himself he tries to match his breathing to yours, watching your lips just barely part in your sleep.

“You need to do something about me, you know,” you say as he wakes in his dreams, the sky above clear and blazoned with an eternity of stars. You’re sitting cross legged on the soft grass near the waters’ edge, his head in your lap as you run your fingers through his hair.

“What do you mean?”

“Love is an unsure thing, naturally it cannot be hindered or birthed… it’s a choice as much as it is unavoidable. Though you have loved me for so long, _choosing_ to keep loving me… you say nothing,” you murmur, and when he meets your eye they’re sparkling with tears barely there. He sighs, knowing you’re right.

“I’ve really only known you for five days though,” he says, and though he’s right you shake your head.

“A soul may know another from the beginning of time and past the end of it. Sometimes these souls meet each other in the physical realm, but memories are fickle - don’t take our chance meeting for granted. Tell me of your dreams, I’d love to hear it, even if you don’t think I do. I care so deeply for you,” you say with such honesty he can’t help but believe, the ache of your heart reaching through your words and into his mind - maybe you do care for him.

When he wakes in the morning, the feeling is gone with the storm; you’re lying on top of him, hair tussled with sleep as your breath tickles the bare skin of his chest. For a moment he cherishes, you stay asleep as he brushes his fingers against your face, working his way up to your hair that he combs till it’s untangled, though it takes a good long while.

He doesn’t say anything about his dreams, about his infatuation for the entirety of the day as he helps you clean up the mess the storm left in its’ wake. In fact he doesn’t even bother to think of it for months until it’s staring him in the face, too clear that even the blind would see and the deaf would hear - in the middle of the village market he feels as though every person in a hundred mile radius would know all his doubts and fears were proven wrong. He’s known you for months know, stayed with you what seems like forever, but you still surprise him.

It was very simple, really; a gesture anyone could give. People had done it to him before, always looking to gain his favor or coerce his opinion, in fact most people had gone a level above. But you’re different, he’s convinced you’re special in a way no one can never be.

In the middle of the bustling trade market, he’d lost sight of you for a moment - you left him on a bench with a pastry you’d bought a few minutes earlier, telling him you’d be back soon. Trying his best to believe you he sits quietly, watching people flit past in their busy lives and keeping a lookout for you. Eventually you return, bag in hand and a smile on your face as you sit beside him.

“I got something for you,” you say, handing the bag to him.

Eyeing you nervously, he looks down into the bag. There’s paper in the way, blocking the gift from view, so he looks back up at you.

“What is it?” He asks slowly.

“Check for yourself,” you reply, your smile growing as you tear off a piece of the pastry to eat.

Once more he looks to you, then removes the paper. Underneath is a blue scarf - the edges are lined with gold fabric and down the center are sewn white flowers. Holding it in his hands he feels its’ softness, nearly as soft as his own royal robes, and he wonders, astounded, how you managed to afford it.

“How… how did you get this…?” He asks in a quiet, confounded voice, his brow furrowed as he examines each stitch and its material.

“Over there. Traders from Persia, I know them well. I know you don’t really have much to your name right now, so I asked them to keep an eye out for something that you might like… something blue,” you murmur, your smile fading slightly as you get quieter. For a moment you allow him to admire it, answering any question he has with answers that leave him adoring you even further.

“You _asked_ them to get this? How long ago?”

“The trek to Persia and back is long, but not too long, fortunately. I asked them the day after you told me your favorite color.”

“That long ago?”

“Something like that, yes,” you say with a giggle, leaning closer to inspect the scarf with him. “I think it’s pretty.”

“Yeah…” he mumbles, caught up and enraptured in your smile. Your eyes drift over the material, delicate and detailed, humming to yourself when you find nothing wrong. “Um, yeah. It’s pretty. Can I - can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” you say, leaning back to see him fully.

“I think I’m in love with you,” is what blurts out of his mouth, and while he originally planned to go for a much less direct approach, you’re still blushing dark red.

“Oh, um…”

When you don’t answer immediately he can already feel the stinging of his eyes, anticipating tears before they form. _I shouldn’t’ve said anything_ , he thinks to himself, repeating the phrase over and over again as he’s shocked into paralysis. Staring at you, waiting for your reply, he can’t move, can’t run away as he desperately wants to.

“No one’s… no one’s ever said that to me before,” you mumble, half embarrassed and half surprised.

“Seriously?” He asks, finding his own surprise in your statement. “I thought you would’ve heard it quite a bit.”

“Well I don’t know that many people to start off with, so…” you trail off, finding your words again a moment later. “Ahk, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to love me.”

His heart could’ve stopped beating and he wouldn’t have noticed - all he can feel is the ache in his chest, the numbness of his arms, and his thoughts repeating that he shouldn’t’ve said anything.

“I do adore you, more than anything I’ve known, but my place is here. Your place is with your family. Sometimes love isn’t enough,” you say, your voice cracking with the tears you’re trying to hide.

“I’d stay with you forever if it meant you’d love me,” he replies, dropping the bag to the ground to take your hands, holding them in his lap against the silk of the scarf.

“You can’t give up everything for one person. It’s not healthy and -“

“Meryt, we are _fated_ to be together -“ you try to interrupt him - “just listen to me… please?”

Slowly, you nod.

“I dreamt of you. Long before I knew you, before I even thought I needed help, I dreamt of you nearly every night. You’d tell me these wonderful things, you’d hold me close and whisper to me, and I don’t know how it’s possible but I’ve known your love for so long I think I would surely waste away without it,” he pleads with you, searching glassy eyes for your gaze.

“That’s why you looked the way you did, when we first met, isn’t it?”

He nods.

“Will you let me stay with you?” He asks soon after, desperate for an answer.

“I… your father will look for you, he loves you very dearly,” you say, your fingers trilling soft pressure into his palm.

“Then we’ll run away, join those Persian traders,” he says, smiling wide when you giggle at the idea.

“They aren’t Persian, they just go there to trade,” you say, still laughing as a tear runs down your cheek.

“Is that a yes then?” He asks, holding you closer than before, still searching for any sign of an answer.

“… yes.”

+

The traders welcome you happily, mostly thanks to your previous connections to them - they know you’d never steal or cheat them, and by extension they trust Ahkmen. As grueling as the travel is, the people you meet always spark your interest. More often than not a simple hello turns to a long, drawn-out conversation about birthplaces and life stories, to the point where Ahkmen usually has to drag you away, still smiling to himself the entire time.

Though you kiss him often, and did it far before the prospect of a romantic relationship was ever a thought, you don’t _really_ kiss him until you’re sitting in a desert oasis, far away from the nile that used to comfort him so deeply. You and Ahkmen have the habit of staying up the latest, watching the stars swarm the sky, sometimes shooting across the darkness as your campfire dies out.

“My mother says she makes a wish when she sees a shooting star,” Ahkmen murmurs, not breaking his stare into the endless sky. You hum, nodding distantly as you silently make your own wish.

After a moment, he asks, “what did you wish for?”

“I’m not telling you,” you say, laughing. “That’s bad luck.”

Caught up in the golden swirl of his eyes, you lean in, eyes half lidded as you come close enough to feel the heat of his breath against your skin. When he leans in the rest of the way, he feels the softness of your lips for the first time - endearing and forever his.

 _I like that_ , he thinks to himself, melting further into your touch as you move to be closer to him. Your chest against his you trace your fingers down his face, temple to jawline, before cupping his chin and pulling him in deeper. 

_Forever his_.

**Author's Note:**

> hope y’all enjoyed Ahk’s trip to Ye Olde Mental Hospital. I gave it an AU ending because it was the only way to make everyone happy and I’m tired of the sadness. We all deserve love.


End file.
